


Welcome Home

by TheProfoundBlade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alastair/Dean - Freeform, Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Demon!Dean, Domestic, M/M, Violence, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheProfoundBlade/pseuds/TheProfoundBlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>S10 Demon!Dean. Slight canon divergence.</i><br/>One night, between endless bottles of beer and shots of tequila, Dean finds a familiar photo next to his drink, making him seek a place he once considered home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> __
> 
> Work in progress guys, won't be super long and will try and update with the second chapter soon. This is also unbetaed, by the by. I hope you enjoy!

**“Welcome home, my boy. XOXO. A.”**

Dean bit the inside of his lower lip, holding the blood-smeared, crumbled photo by the tips of his fingers. Some classic rock song was playing in the background, accompanied by half-drunk men blabbering nearby at the bar. Dean had been settling in at this particular bar for a while, seeing as it was close to a good strip bar and had a cheap motel near by; all the needs a demon like him could have. No one had bothered him for a while, not even Crowley, and that suited him perfectly. However, this little picture had disrupted his little party of one for the evening.

As he sat down by the bar, he took a closer look at the photo. It looked old, quality almost as if it had come from one of the earliest cameras in human existence. The blood was old too, but had stained the photograph significantly, adding a red hue to the people underneath it. He could recognize himself, younger and already wearing black eyes, looking quite battle worn and tired but with a hint of a smile on his bloody, chapped lips. Next to him - not even next to him, but headbutting him somewhat - was Alastair, smiling and white eyes beaming at Dean. He was dead, though, Dean was sure; after all, Sam toasted him years ago and Dean had a faint recollection of it, even though he had been half passed out when it happened. 

“Can I get you something Dean?” the bartender asked with a raspy smokers-voice. Dean looked up and made a grimace as to say “sure” and returned to the photo, letting a finger trace the outline of Alastair’s profile. Did someone leave this here to taunt him? Crowley, maybe? And why, what did it matter? It was common knowledge in Hell that Dean had become Alastair’s prime apprentice, some circles had even referred to them as lovers; a title Dean didn’t necessarily agree with nor wanted to directly deny. 

The bartender returned with a couple of shots of tequila and walked away quickly, the hands of him catching Dean’s eyes for a brief moment as they seemed oddly familiar; long, lean and pale. As Dean looked up to double check, the bartender was out of view. He shrugged, put the photo down and chugged the tequila, deciding to not put more thought into this little message.

It was 5 AM when he decided to head back to his room, drunk and stumbling to his door, barely being able to unlock it as the damn lock kept moving in front of him. When he finally made it in, he slammed the door behind him and tripped over his own boots as he tried kicking them off, falling forward and hitting his shoulder on the hard bed frame. With a sigh he let his back rest against it, long legs relaxing on the dirty carpet and arms relaxing on his stomach. He hardly bothered getting up and into his bed, but after a while his back started complaining and he turned around, sluggishly crawling into bed and nudging his head against the sweaty pillow.

“If you’re back I’m gonna find you, you know…” he slurred as he looked at the picture from earlier, having pulled it from his back pocket. He reached out and placed it on the bedside table before falling hard asleep.

\--- ¤ ---

The loud sound of a car horn outside managed to wake Dean with a shock, sitting up quick in his bed and running his hands through his hair.  
“God damn cars making so much god damn noise,” he grunted, looking around his filthy room and sighing. Bar wouldn’t open till 2 PM and it was hardly nine in the morning, nowhere fun for him to go at this time. He looked straight ahead, eyeing the gross shower in the bathroom, cringing a little. Just as he was about to get up from his seat he remembered; what about in Hell?

When he and Alastair had worked together for a few years, Alastair had offered Dean to come live with him in their off-time, of which there was hardly none. Dean had accepted, seeing as he didn’t see himself leaving Hell, and they shared a reasonably sized apartment together for the rest of his time there. 

Out of all the weird things in Hell, Dean always thought the idea of housing was one of the strangest. Most demons never stayed put in Hell, but the important ones certainly did and it differentiated greatly whose house it was in relation to how it appeared. Azazel’s had been a large old cottage, whilst Lillith’s had looked more like a kindergarten with tiny demon souls - yes, those were a thing too - running around her yard all day. Alastair was simple, for some reason, and liked a smaller space in what looked like a simple, standard apartment complex. 

Dean thought to himself that maybe their place still stood in Hell and he could gather some energy there, get a nice, scalding shower and some rest in his old bed. Even if Alastair wouldn’t be there, it would still feel familiar and more homey, without the worry that anyone would come find him there either. 

“Screw it,” he muttered and put on his boots quickly, heading out towards a crossroads to find an expressway downstairs.

\--- ¤ ---

Besides the roads being cleaner - he assumed because of Crowley’s sick need for order - Hell looked like itself as he remembered it. He walked into the apartment complex and trotted up to the third floor, standing still as he reached the dusty door to the left. He let a finger run over the carvings in the wood, tracing the large, sophisticated A, reaching down towards a brutally carved D underneath it.  
He smiled to himself slightly, remembering how he’d carved it in a blood-drunk stupor, making Alastair pissed for a good evening but ultimately he let it stay. It made Dean feel warm, knowing his initial was still carved in somewhere, like he belonged there.

He pushed the door slightly, seeing as it wasn’t locked and it opened gracefully into the apartment. The air was cold, which was weird as it was always extremely hot in Hell no matter where you were. Alastair himself had always brought extreme temperatures with him even when his touch was as cold as ice most of the time.

Dean closed the door behind him silently and trotted in, looking into the rooms as he passed them. Directly to his left was the large bathroom, see-through walls in the shower going into the bedroom. Alastair had a kink with watching, not that Dean had cared much about it at the time, but seeing it without anyone on the other side felt strange to him.  
He walked past the bathroom and bedroom into the large living room and combined kitchen to his right. Dust had settled on all the furniture, of which there hardly was any; a large, soft couch, a small table near it, a TV hanging on the wall, a few soft chairs, some ancient photos on the wall from Alastair’s time as a human during the holocaust and a dresser. The kitchen was very simple too, dark wooden cupboards and a large fridge, a simple silver sink and a small sitting area near the counter. This apartment could have been plucked directly from most places in America, Dean thought, as he walked past the furniture to look out the large windows in the back of the apartment.

From there he could see the entrance to the torture-pit, an angle probably only the important demons of hell would ever get to see. It looked dark, the area literally blood red from hounds dragging bodies down there and back up when they were done. Dean nodded as he remembered the screams and the pleadings, how they echoed so clearly through the hall even when he had been approaching the pit. He had fond memories of Alastair taking him down there the first few times after his “yes”, where they had almost browsed souls for hours to find the right ones for Dean to practice on.

He stood for a while, hands deep in his jean pockets and went through some more memories. The silence in the apartment was almost terrifying, seeing as there had always been some sort of noise there; talking between them, the TV was on, the radio… The radio.  
He turned on his heel and went to the kitchen, finding a large dusty radio on the counter. He turned it on to find that it was still tuned in on his favourite station, “Soldier of Fortune” by Deep Purple blaring through the gritty sound system, making Dean smile wide. 

As he hummed along to the tune he started to strip off his clothes, dropping them on the floor as he got piece by piece off. He made it to the bathroom naked, glaring at himself in the large mirror next to the shower, eyes flicking to black for a moment before he stepped into the shower, turning on the water slowly and resting his back against the cold tiles behind him. 

As the water warmed up quickly, steam rising, he looked to his left and studied the bedroom, big bed looking completely untouched and the large window not draped. He remembered the first evening he had spent there, unsure what to expect from Alastair but nothing had happened. He had slept more calmly there than he had anywhere in a long while, and for years all they had done was sleep beside each other. Eventually it changed, though, which is where the lover-term started to flourish between the other demons as they had heard rumors and “seen things”. Dean scoffed to himself and turned his focus back to the shower, closed his eyes and leaned into the scalding water to rinse of days of alcohol, blood and sweat.

\--- ¤ ---

Nighttime had fallen upon Hell, causing the sky to go from bright-red to dark, dusty sand-plains outside turning dark gray. Dean had curled up in the couch with the large duvet from the bed, watching reruns of Dr. Sexy M.D. and drinking from a whisky-bottle he had stored in the back of a cabinet in the kitchen. It felt weird, being ‘home’, but he felt his muscles relax and body warm up more so than it had since he had turned.

He heard a clicking sound and was unsure for a moment if it had been the door or the TV. He sat up a bit, peeking over the back of the couch, trying to look past the corner in the hallway but couldn’t see or hear anything.  
“Hello?”  
No response. He shrugged it off and sank back into the warm couch, taking a big swig of the whisky and took it with him underneath the covers, keeping it between him and a large pillow under him. He managed to snooze off for a moment, waking up slowly and seeing the TV was turned off. As he tried to sit up he saw a pair of shoes underneath the table, making his eyes grow wide and black.

“What the-”  
“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Dean threw a leg off the couch, standing halfway up on it and looked into the kitchen behind him, seeing the lights were on and the back of a man standing by the fridge. Dean dropped the whisky bottle onto the floor, striking his foot as it landed, making him grunt loudly. The man laughed under his breath, the sound of something being cut on a cutting board mixing itself with Dean’s more erratic breathing.

“I thought I would have time to prepare you something, but it seems I was mistaken.”  
“Is it-”  
“Me? Yes, of course. Who else would be in our apartment?”

The man turned around and met Dean’s eyes, smiling and drying off wet hands in a clean piece of cloth. Tall and lean, salt and pepper beard neatly shaven and a light blue crisp shirt tucked in dark pants. Just as Dean remembered him. Alastair, in all his prime.  
After being able to see his face, Dean calmed down significantly and leaned his weight onto the knee still on the couch. He leaned down quick the grab the bottle of whisky, pulling his other leg up and sat forward over the back of the couch, elbows resting there and holding his upper body straight. He smiled slyly, looking slowly up and down Alastair who still stood, smiling, head slightly tilted.

“Well, well. Look at you, alive and everything,” Dean said, sighing and taking a swig of the whisky.  
“Of course. Can’t get rid of me that easy.”  
“Same goes for me I guess.”  
“Quite. I hope you’re hungry, was going to make us some omelettes.”

Dean nodded and tilted his head as Alastair turned around, trying to see if anything was new or changed about his old master. So far, everything seemed the same, which was very pleasing to him.  
“I see you settled in easily again. That’s comforting.” Alastair hummed, cracking a few eggs into a bowl and starting to whisk them. Dean got up from his seat, jumping over the back and walking slowly into the kitchen, standing against the doorway and crossed his arms. He was thankful that he had remembered to dress a little, at least, boxers and a clean t-shirt. Otherwise, it could have been quite awkward, standing there.

“Yeah, uh. Why was everything so dusty if you’ve still been here?” Dean asked, clearing his throat slightly and adjusting his stance a little.  
“Well, honestly, I don’t spend too much time here anymore, not since…”  
Alastair looked up from the eggs and gave a small smile, opening his mouth slightly as to say something but quickly turned back to his cooking, melting a knob of butter on a pan.  
“Since?” Dean tried to press on.  
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now, I’m here now. Plenty of things to catch up on. I suspect you came because of my little message?”

Dean nodded to himself and followed along curiously when Alastair poured the eggs into the pan, delicately throwing onions, garlic and ham into the eggs and mixing them. Alastair always enjoyed cooking, Dean remembered, which was beneficial for him later as he was taught how to cook a lot of different meals from their time together. He got lost in his thoughts for a moment, seeing Alastair turn his head to him, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, yeah sorry. I got it. Wasn’t sure who left it. Figures it would be yourself.”  
“Hm, yes,” Alastair hummed, “Wouldn’t leave such a thing for anyone to deliver. It was very personal, after all.”  
“So it was you who came with the tequila as well?”

Alastair nodded and flipped over the omelette, turning down the heat on the stove slightly and reached into a cupboard to grab two plates. Dean instinctively moved next to the stove, opening a drawer and pulled out two pairs of cutlery for them, grabbing the plates from Alastair as he stood back up with them. Their eyes met for a moment and Dean swallowed hard, taking the plates over to the seating area behind them and positioned the plates so they would be sitting across from each other. A moment later Alastair slid by Dean, folding one half of the omelette onto Dean’s plate and the other on his own. They sat down and only the humming from the turned on light could be heard.

\--- ¤ ---

“So… How?” Dean started, cutting a big piece of his omelette and shoving it in his mouth quickly. Damn, he’d missed this food.  
“How what, Dean? How I’m alive?” Alastair retorted, taking his time cutting up his food and barely looking up from his plate.  
“Well, yeah! I’m curious. Thought you were toasted.”  
“I was. But gatekeepers are easy to persuade, if you know where to find them. Which I do, of course.”  
“Of course.”

Another moment of silence grew between them as they ate. Dean was quicker, low groans escaping his throat between bites, smacking his lips and he practically tossed the fork onto the plate when he finished. Alastair looked up, almost annoyed, shaking his head slightly as he took another bite.

“I see you’ve acquired the Mark. Quite a thing, that.” Alastair said, finishing his meal and sitting back in his chair, hands folded together in his lap.  
“Yeah, I don’t know… Bloodline apparently. Who’d’a thought?” Dean chuckled, sitting back as well, mimicking Alastair but one arm hanging over the chair next to him, spreading his legs wide under the table.

“I’m glad to see you back, though. Truly.”  
“Don’t think anyone else feels that way-”  
“They don’t matter, though, do they really. You seem more at ease with your eyes back, more relaxed. More you. Must be relieving.”

Dean nodded and cleared his throat, trying to find something to look at as he didn’t want to meet Alastair’s eyes, afraid he would blush. He was tough, and tough guys don’t turn red from praise.

“Do you plan on staying?”  
“I uh.. I don’t know yet. Didn’t think you’d be here.”  
“And that matters in your decision?”

Dean frowned and looked up finally, pouting slightly.  
“Of course? This was our place. Wouldn’t want to be here permanently if you weren’t here.”

Alastair smiled and got up from his seat, taking his plate and Dean’s over to the counter and started walking towards the living room. As he reached the door, he turned his head and reached a hand out after Dean, bright blue eyes glinting underneath the hooded darkness. 

“Come, my boy. We can keep talking in bed.”


End file.
